


all the ashes in my wake

by for_darkness_shows_the_stars



Series: What Comes After [3]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Just a memory, Katara (Avatar)-centric, Katara being a queen, a bit of violence I guess, but nothing graphic, doesn't your heart ever hurt from all the love you have for katara?, nvm, oh wait that's just regular katara, stay safe, the author is having feelings about the world being saved by literal children again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:54:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27631016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_darkness_shows_the_stars/pseuds/for_darkness_shows_the_stars
Summary: 'We’re just children', Katara wanted to scream to the skies, to the cruel, uncaring Spirits who had made them into the saviours of the world. 'We’re just children, you sick monsters.'
Relationships: Aang & Katara & Zuko (Avatar)
Series: What Comes After [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981828
Comments: 8
Kudos: 115





	all the ashes in my wake

**Author's Note:**

> So ... this was supposed to be only a prelude to something else entirely, but it worked quite nicely on its own, so imma post the other thing seperately.
> 
> Title from a Hozier song. 
> 
> Enjoy!

In the Water Tribes, their traditions, tales and legends were transferred orally, from father to son, from mother to daughter. She and Sokka sat at their grandmother's knees as she told them the tales of heroes and spirits and miracles. Books and scrolls were a rarity, portraits unheard of.

It wasn’t so, Katara found out soon, in the Fire Nation. It hit her first when she stumbled upon the Hall of Firelords. Hundreds of tapestries lined the walls, depicting the Firelords on one side, and their spouses on the other.

As if in a trance, Katara studied their faces, these men and women who’d all borne the title that now hung heavy over Zuko’s shoulders, who’d all worn the five-pronged crown she’d seen lowered into his hair.

She didn’t even realize how far she’d gotten until she read the name of the next in line, written in golden symbols on an ebony plaque.

_Firelord Sozin._

Across from him, a tapestry of a stern-looking woman, with auburn hair and copper-coloured eyes. _Firelady Akira_ , read the plaque.

Firelady Illah perched next to her, radiant in her beauty. Across from her, the ancient face of Firelord Azulon stared her down.

Azulon. The man who had ordered her, the last Southern waterbender, and thus her mother, killed. Azulon, who'd reigned for twenty-three long years, spreading war and violence and suffering.

Next to him, she saw the man she had only glimpsed once in real life, and had little desire to repeat the experience.

Ozai.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with sleek black hair and a long goatee. Rendered on canvas, Katara thought, the image of his eyes couldn’t quite capture the dripping venom he’d watched her with, as they dragged him into the depths of the earth, a dungeon where he’d never feel Agni’s light on his skin again.

He looked like Zuko. Or Zuko looked like him.

There was no denying that fact. The same colouring, raven-black and dragon’s gold, the same bone structure, the razor-sharp cheekbones and the pointy chin, the same commanding presence.

But even disregarding the scar, Katara saw the difference clear as day. Ozai’s eyes, even in their burning golden colour, were so, so cold, colder than any winter she had lived through in the South Pole.

They weren’t like Yon Rha’s. Yon Rha’s had been _empty_ , lifeless. Even the cruelty had all evaporated. It was the price she’d made him pay, that day in the rain. Why kill him, when being forced to _live_ with such emptiness was so much more terrible?

Ozai … Ozai’s eyes were still very much alive, cold and cruel and arrogant, the eyes of an unrepentant monster, who had ruined his children and the entire world.

She shuddered at the memory, and ran, as fast as her legs would carry her, away from the judging gazes of the Firelords of yore.

Later that day, after sun had long set, and Aang, Zuko and she were sprawled on the floor of Zuko’s chambers in their pyjamas, surrounded with hundreds of papers full of legislation, drafts, peace treaties and the like, she asked about it.

Zuko had sobered. They had been cackling like crazy only moments before. Late in the night, running only on adrenaline and the scarce few hours of sleep they had managed to get in the night before, between work and the persisting nightmares, even a stupid spelling mistake in one of the missives sent in from one noble or the other was absolutely ridiculous.

Hesitantly, he’d related an idea he’d had. _A memorial museum of the Hundred Year War_ , where every battle, atrocity, and action would be documented for the future generations.

“We’d leave the plaques with their names here,” he’d said uncertainly, “because we’re not trying to erase history, right? But they don’t deserve to be honoured with the rest. So the tapestries can be moved into the museum.”

He’d refused to meet their gazes, with those eyes that would have been Ozai’s, if they weren’t always burning, burning with passion, and love, and pain, and sorrow, and exhaustion, and whatever boiling pot of emotions was whirring through him at the moment. But never cold. Never cruel.

Aang didn’t speak for a long time, head bowed, face buried into his knees, which he’d folded protectively into his chest. Katara recalled the way he’d broken down sobbing, gutted after he’d defeated Ozai, small and vulnerable, and he was _twelve, Spirits above he was **twelve**_ **.**

Katara had reached for him then, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. She allowed him to melt himself in her embrace, burrow his head into her shoulder. She didn’t comment on the moisture left on her dress afterwards, or the salty tang of tears in the air.

Zuko looked supremely uncomfortable, and Katara had to physically restrain herself from pulling him towards her as well.

And Katara’s heart broke for her boys. One who was the last of his kind, and even if his friends would make sure that he wasn’t alone a day in his life, nothing would ever bring his people back … and one who was carrying the weight of a war-torn nation on his shoulders, made to pay for the crimes of his ancestors.

So she held onto Aang, and extended a hand to Zuko. His fingers were fever-hot as they brushed against her palm. His eyes held the desolation of war.

 _We’re just children_ , Katara wanted to scream to the skies, to the cruel, uncaring Spirits who had made them into the saviours of the world. _We’re just children, you sick monsters_.

She held Zuko’s hand in a bone-bruising grip, willing the young Firelord with half a face to _understand_.

He did.

He always did.

Katara felt his warmth envelop them both, and she allowed herself, for once, to draw comfort instead of dispensing it. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent of spice and smoke, as one of his hands came up, to tangle itself in her hair.

“It’s not fair,” she whispered, almost too quiet for anyone to hear.

“I know.”

 _I know_.

There was nothing more to say. No words that would somehow erase the past century of atrocities. No words that would bring the Air Nomads, or the Southern waterbenders, or Mum, back.

Not even the Firelord had that kind of power.

So Katara tightened her arms around Aang, and let herself cry.

Cry for Aang, sweet Aang, who only wanted to ride elephant-koi and make friends, sweet Aang, who was the last of his kind.

Cry for Sokka, the sarcastic and brilliant Sokka, who watched life leave Yue’s eyes, who’d held her lifeless body as the moon above them bled.

Cry for Zuko, her prince weaned on cruelty, who loved his people so much he burned for them.

Cry for Toph, boisterous and loud and brash, Toph who went strangely quiet for long stretches of time, ever since she had dangled over the burning Earth Kingdom forest.

Cry for Suki, incredible, confident, locked up for months in the dark, separated from the warriors she had dedicated her life to.

And most of all, Katara let herself cry for _herself_. For the childhood that had slipped through her fingers the moment she laid her eyes on Mum, sprawled on the floor of their igloo, the front of her parka scorched black, the scent of burnt flesh permeating the air. For the life lived in wartime, abandoned by her father, with only the vague idea of an Avatar that would come and save them all to keep her drifting, keep her head above the waterline, keep the dark spirits at bay. For the girl that could have been, unburdened by the demons of a war veteran.

She let go.

* * *

That night, for the first time since the War’s end, her sleep was dreamless.

**Author's Note:**

> Help, I am having FEELINGS again.
> 
> [Tumblr.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/stars-and-darkness)


End file.
